


Acid Burns and Lusty Monsters

by HyenaKonrad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acid Burns, Desperation, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Lust, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Tantrum, Watersports, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an aftermath to the New Year's party, Sherlock is having to remake a handmade acid solution. After working for hours on end and faced with a desperate pressing need, he loses concentration enough to receive burns from the solution he's worked so hard to prepare.</p><p>Will he find it in himself to be able to ask for help?</p><p>How will John react to his continued neglect?</p><p>And how much longer can he contain his lust for a man that he can't help but feel lured to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You'll Get Nowhere If You Don't Speak Up

He had to get this right. It was all to be very exact and must be perfect, or the solution wouldn’t settle in the manner necessary. Chemistry was an exact science. No estimations, no deciding that this milliliter really wouldn’t make much a difference. If it wasn’t perfect, then the results would be skewed and he would have to start back at square one (and since this experiment has taken Sherlock nearly 5 to 6 hours to get to this point, he wasn’t keen on starting over). He wouldn’t have to remake this solution if it weren’t for one of John’s merry little friends mixing his chemicals together at the much regrettable New Year’s party. A lot of money was wasted and a lot more was spent replenishing his stores, and now he had to start the painstaking process of remixing the solutions that were handmade and his own creation.

“Sherlock are you really going to spend all day hunched over that table?”

“I wouldn’t have to if it weren’t for your so called friends.”

“I’ve apologized for that already Sherlock. Look really, it was one night, the flat wasn’t that much of a disaster and I cleaned it up singled handedly since you refused to lift a finger.”

“I wasn’t cleaning up a mess that wasn’t my fault.”

“My point is you need to stop hanging it over my head. Come on, I’m ordering take out. You need to eat something. What do you want?”

“Not hungry.” That was a lie. Sherlock was absolutely ravenous for food, now that John had his body on a regular feeding schedule. His stomach was growling and twisting itself into knots, and the discomfort was immense, but he would ignore it until this solution was finished. He would finish with the rest tomorrow. He just had to finish this last one. Another two hours if he was doing this correctly without rushing.

“Sherlo—“

“Not discussing this John.”

That was it. The last straw. He was sick and tired of hearing that from Sherlock. That was his rebuttal time and again when he just didn’t want to do a bit of talking. He wasn’t discussing it. Fine. If he wasn’t discussing, John wasn’t going to give a rat’s ass about his needs. Let him suffer in silent discomfort for all he cared. What an infuriating nuisance! John lurched to his feet and made off for his bedroom to let his head cool, to keep from an outburst. The last thing he felt like doing right now was getting into a heated argument (not that Sherlock would have argued back). So he left Sherlock to his concocting, stooped over the table like a statue forever held in place.

And so for quite some time he carried on with the mixing of his solution without any interruption. His back ached from sitting in the same position for so long, and his legs tingled with disuse. He shifted about on his seat for a moment, and the feeling of pins and needles worsened, making him shiver with discomfort. He doubt he’d be able to stand on his own two feet if he were to get up his legs were so numb. He could spare a moment. He wasn’t yet at the volatile stage of his mixture so a few seconds to stretch out his tired body would do no harm. Releasing the beaker and pipette he had in his hands, he reached his hands up and stretched out his torso, leaning back carefully on his stool, stretching his legs down to the floor to get the feeling back in them. It was then that he noticed another, familiar discomfort.

How is it he always came to this? Came to his bladder needing and Sherlock not being in a position to give it the relief it wanted? He was much too busy for this nonsense. If he left the table now, who knows what could happen to his solution while he was absent. He didn’t need to go that badly, right? No, he was fine. He’d just noticed the aching discomfort, and it was hardly swelling with any sort of urgency within him. No, he would fair just fine. He had more control over himself than that. In two hours he could use his toilet. He had complete easy access to it. He just had to last out for just two more hours. Just two more hours.

Sherlock set back to work in automated fashion, pouring in components to his solution. Oh where did he put that pipette? He shifted on the stool, legs going tense for a moment before he went still once more. Now what step was he on? He picked up his glass stirring rod and whisked it about the solution in the beaker. Steady swirl. Tink. Tink. Throb. He winced, letting out a tense breath of air, knee bouncing up and down quickly, and he stirred equally was quickly. The solution started to bubble. Slow down. This was a careful process. Any quick handling of this solution could lead it to bursting over the beaker and breaking down the components, leaving him a frothy mess, and having to start all over again.

But it was getting harder to concentrate. He was starting to get a bit frantic, and it was compromising his ability to perform the proper procedures. Time was crawling forth with exaggerated slowness, and so was his brain in the necessary calculations being made. How was it when he’d made the decision that he could resolve to hold his water, that his urgency tipped over from nonexistent to surging forth screaming ‘Danger!’ to him? He had just entered the last, difficult process of his craft and simply couldn’t leave the table, not for a second. He had to keep stirring the solution while he made carefully measured pours to keep it from reacting.

A knock on the door. It startled Sherlock and he nearly knocked the beaker over. His bladder throbbed and pulsed, and he crossed his legs tightly to quell the ache in his groin, a desire sweeping over him to rub himself, to hold himself, to press and hold all of that urine inside. He couldn’t spare the hands. He rocked for a moment before going still. He couldn’t let John see how desperate he was growing.

“John! Door!”

John was out of his room before Sherlock had to really say anything, and he answered, paid the delivery boy, and took his food into the sitting room, where he perched himself on is armchair with his laptop and food to occupy him. Just what Sherlock needed. Another distraction. As if his body, more namely his bladder, wasn’t distraction enough to impeded his progress.

“If you insist on sitting in there, please keep quiet.”

John gave the man a stony glare, setting his jaw before he went back to his own business, biting back a scathing remark. Sherlock could just sodding get over himself. His chewing was distracting, as was his slow typing on the keyboard. He really needed to teach him proper typing technique. And how to not think quite so loudly. And how to not exist quite so loudly. John was all he could think of! John and his bladder. They were both too loud to ignore. He couldn’t hear himself thinking. Oh confound it all what was he doing? Sherlock’s unfocused eyes stared blankly at the beaker, stirring rod tinking against the side of the glass. He had a bottle in hand, but he couldn’t quite remember if he’d already poured this component in yet or not. He must not have, right? He had it lifted and poised, ready to pour. Or had he been making to set it down? Sweat dripped down his forehead. He licked his lips. His mouth was dry. His body ached. His stomach was empty. His bladder was so terribly full. He’s left his body neglected, and he was paying for it.

Another ten minutes ticked away, and Sherlock was sure that had to have been the wrong decision. He poured in the necessary amount of the component in his hand into the solution, and gas bubbles had started popping on top of the liquid, a dense sludge congealing on the bottom of the beaker.

“No, no, no!”

Sherlock grit his teeth, face scrunching in frustration. He could remedy this. It had to be salvageable! He was not going through this all again!

“Hmph. The great scientist make a mistake?”

John’s words were biting and meant to inflict wounds to his pride. If he’d been paying attention maybe he’d feel slightly disappointed in the fact his only friend was seeing the flaws in Sherlock and not simply the brilliance he prided himself on. Oh but how could he listen to John when the only thing screaming in the room was his bladder within him demanding relief? Not even John and his loud existence could break through the endless litany in Sherlock’s head: ‘I’ve got to go. I have to. I have to piss. Oh I can’t wait.’ He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them in the other direction, pressing his crotch down against the seat of the stool, the legs scooting against the floor. Oh please just be quiet. He had to finish this! He’s come so far! He picked up the pipette again, adding careful steady drops. The color of the solution changed to a vibrant yellow (it was supposed to remain clear throughout the creation process if it was made properly). Yellow. Yellow.

Warning his bladder cried. It was going to spill its contents if Sherlock didn’t make use of a toilet soon.

“You want me to be quiet and yet you can’t sit still and stop making so much bloody noise!”

John laughed dryly, rather frustrated with the double standard in the flat. Sherlock was always trying to make demands or lay down rules, but never followed them. It was just like him to be ‘above the law’. As a show of defiance, John flicked on the telly and turned the volume on high. He wasn’t really paying it any attention. He gave Sherlock a glance. Not a single remark. In the words of Sherlock Holmes, that was dull. Terribly dull. What had him so—oh. Oh that bloody idiot. John ignored his body’s reaction to the realization, which was easy to do when anger filled him up. He tried. He tried all he could to help Sherlock conquer his little ‘problem’ with his bladder, but the man was doing nothing to help himself? What the hell was the point in trying so hard if Sherlock was just going to throw aside all of the progress he’d made and abuse his body like this? Well let him soil himself like a damn child. John was fed up with caring.

He could barely stand it anymore. Sherlock was on the brink. He could feel it. Setting down the pipette he shoved his now free hand between his legs, closing his eyes tightly. Why he was still stirring the failed solution he didn’t know. Maybe because he was letting himself believe it could still be salvaged and he wasn’t helplessly about to wet himself. Maybe he just simply didn’t want to admit to such failure. He rocked against his hand, pressing hard against himself. Oh good god that felt good. His crotch was damp with sweat, muscles spasming at how tired they were from being held so tightly for so long. He could hardly stand it. Stand the full swell of his bladder pressing against his belt. If he could just undo it, if he could find enough comfort in the space of desperation long enough to finish making his solution…

A thoughtless slip up. The last slip up of many to finally send his solution to the tipping point of instability. He let the stirring rod go in the beaker, hand rushing to his belt to quickly undo it, fingers fumbling with the clasp. With the solution no longer being stirred, it started to bubble furiously, foam billowing up over the top edge of the glass. There was a loud fizzing. Shit. Sherlock was too late to stop it. He rushed both hands for the reacting liquid, trying to pacify it by quickly stirring it back down, but to no avail. The liquid bubbled over and burst from the beaker, all over the table, and all over Sherlock’s bare hands.

An involuntary scream tore from his throat, skin burning and itching. Christ it itched. He tore his nails over the searing flesh, and it only resulted in worsening the sensation of burning along with tearing up skin that was blistering and breaking down. Was that blood?

“Sherlock!”

He may be a downright git but John was not going to ignore the fact that he may have a serious injury (due to his own stupidity, but that was about the only manner in which Sherlock obtained injuries). He walked over to Sherlock and took his wrists into his own hands, eyeing the skin. It was reddened and a bit blistered, loose flesh torn away by scratches. Luckily the bleeding was minimal, but the damage was pretty severe considering the fact Sherlock needed ample use of his hands on a daily basis and they were now out of commission. It would take at least a week for them to be useable again, and a few weeks before he could have full use of them again (recovery time would be pending on Sherlock’s cooperation with his doctor’s orders and keeping the wounds clean enough to not catch infection).

“Alright, up you get.”

“John I—“

“Fine, right. I’ll be right back.”

John stalked off to fetch his home medical kit (necessary when living with Sherlock Holmes), and Sherlock sat staring at his hands, trying to keep from scratching at them. Christ they burned. He tried to clench them into fists to determine their range of motion, but they were stiffened now that they were starting to swell, and they hurt terribly. He winced. He let out a heavy sigh, taking a deep calming breath that did little more than alert him to his rather urgent problem he had momentarily been allowed to forget. A surge of urgency ripped through him, his hands flying to his crotch, only for the touch of fabric to his skin to remind him of the burns marring his hands. A spurt of urine soaked into his pants, and Sherlock was in a panic. Oh god what was he going to do? He was losing control and he doubted he’d be able to undo his trousers himself. And he was not going to ask John. No he absolutely was not going to ask John to help him use the toilet. This whole sordid business had gone far enough as it was. 

He leaped to his feet, looking around frantically for an answer, a solution to the heavy weight in his abdomen that seemed to get heavier and heavier. He danced on his feet. Oh god he had to go. Oh Christ what was he to do?! He crossed his legs tightly, wriggling his hips as he gasped out shorts pants in need. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. No way he could go. He just wanted some form of relief from the intense aching and fullness. It was at the point of pain and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he could endure. He walked over to his chair now, sitting on the arm of it to press his crotch into it tightly. It brought a small form of relief, and he shamefully rutted against it, his cock twitching in reaction, stiffening. Not the reaction he wanted, but the pain in his hands, the pain in his bladder, and all of the other discomforts of his body had his brain completely out of place. He needed to go. Oh how he needed to go.

Heavy feet thudding on the floor. John was coming. Sherlock let a soft whine escape his lips before coming off of the arm of his chair to sink into the seat, crossing his legs as tight as he could, but a small bit of urine leaked through the tight clench of his muscles regardless. Oh he couldn’t last much longer. He was fighting with the embarrassment of asking John for such a monumental favor or completely wetting himself for the second time in a little more than two weeks. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask John for such a favor. So he suffered in silence as the doctor went to work on his injured hands.

“You’re not going to be able to use your hands very well for the next week. No getting the bandages wet or dirty, so I’m advising against experiments and case work. I’ll tell you when the wounds are well enough for you to have full use of them again.”

“So you want me to stew in boredom? Are you sure you want to deal with the consequences of your orders doctor?”

“I’ll manage. The recovery period will be longer if you get the skin infected.”

“Noted.”

Oh god he needed to piss. There was no holding it anymore, there simply wasn’t. It was either go now or his body was going to make the decision for him. Sherlock was tense, and John was equally so (but for different reasons). He urged John to carry on faster with the will of his mind (not that that sort of thing worked), trying to keep from rocking back and forth. What he wouldn’t give for a firm press against his groin. Maybe John…shame on himself for thinking such filthy thoughts! Sherlock winced as John applied an antiseptic, his bladder throbbing and releasing a gush of urine into his trousers. Oh he simply couldn’t wait anymore!

“John…”

“Don’t talk Sherlock. I’ve honestly had enough of it.”

“John I--“

“Enough!”

Sherlock flinched, edging away from John and his impending wrath, glued down to his seat.

“Do you think it’s fun abusing yourself like this? Do you think I don’t notice things? Do you think I don’t bloody realize when you’re practically on the verge of pissing yourself mad? Well Sherlock it’s kind of hard to be sympathetic to your little ‘condition’ when it seems like you do this to yourself out of sheer lazy or stubborn nature! And I’ve had it! You’re a grown man!”

Sherlock was reeling, reaching forward after John who was stalking off and out of the sitting room. He wanted to keep John beside him and make him understand. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean…he pushed himself to his feet, and suddenly the muscles of his bladder gave way, and no manner of twisting his legs together would stop what came forth. His urine burst from him, flooding his trousers in unstoppable gushes. Oh god. He trembled, eyes shut, and the humiliation and distrust from the one man he gave the gift of his trust to was too much. Far too much for him to handle. He could feel the anger and upset filling him up, and felt a tantrum coming on. Not this too. He didn’t want John to know about his fits, if it was the very last thing he could keep from his flat mate. But he couldn’t stop them once they started. Only Mycroft was able to do that.

Once the flood from his tired body had ceased, the hot tears stung his eyes, and he felt ashamed and disgusted by them. A Holmes didn’t cry, didn’t wet themselves, and didn’t have embarrassing, childish tantrums. He screamed, shoving his beakers and bottles with his arms onto the floor. Sod the solutions! Just damn it all! He took heaving breaths as the tears flowed freely, the scream involuntarily ripping from his throat as he kicked the stool over. Oh make it stop. He was not having a tantrum with his flat mate just in the other room. He was not.

He fell to the floor, crawling underneath the table as he often did to seek some sort of solace and sanctuary, pressing his wrists against his ears as the screams continued. Please just stop. Why couldn’t he stop. He just wanted it to stop. Stop. Stop.

Hands. Hands reaching and gripping him. Soft mumbling. Soothing. Mycroft? Sherlock looked up through the fog of tears, and was shocked to see it wasn’t Mycroft, but John. John with a look of guilt on his face, hands gentle as he guided Sherlock out from under the table. And still he was screaming, trying to shove away.

“Sssshhhh, its ok Sherlock. Up you get. Hush…”

John embraced the writhing, tall body against himself, rubbing his hand up and down in a soothing motion over Sherlock’s back. After some time, Sherlock found himself beginning to calm, the screams quieting, the tears ceasing, and he leaned tiredly against the smaller man trying to hold him up.

“Sherlock I’m…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…you were being a downright git and I lost my temper. But Christ Sherlock you’re a grown man, I thought that you could handle—“

“John…”

“What?”

“Bit…not good…”

He looked down at John, face severe, some semblance of composure returning to him, enough for him to glare at the man. But through that harshness there was hurt and fear. This was a problem that has damaged Sherlock inside and out throughout his entire life. John was starting to see just how large this problem really was. A gross underestimation on his part.

“Right, sorry…how about cleaning up?”

Sherlock nodded, and went to clean himself up while John cleaned up the mess he had made (both at his work table and in the sitting room). The evening was then spent with words muttered between the two friends, Sherlock explaining his condition and his tantrums, explaining that accidents have been something he’s dealt with all his life and though sometimes it really was his fault, he never meant for what resulted to happen. To cut through the emotional abuse from his peers and many others who have come in and out of his life, his work became all important and was his being, so much to the point that Sherlock as a person fell in the background, as did the care of his body. And that’s why the accidents happened (and why situations of desperation happened so often) .John assured Sherlock he would be more understanding and would try to remind him to be a little more conscious of his needs (while understanding when he wasn’t).

John didn’t talk about the other bit of why he’d gotten so frustrated with Sherlock. He didn’t talk about the feelings of lust he felt towards Sherlock when he saw him in such desperate need, and he didn’t talk about the positively vile things he wanted to do to his flat mate. And he certainly didn’t mention how he wanked that night to such sinful thoughts, muttering his flat mate’s name in soft whispers to himself. Oh god what was he to do with this. This was so big, so profound, and so very terrifying, and so very wrong. Which was why he had to make his move tomorrow, before this profound secret broke him and bore a hole of regret into his very being until his dying days.


	2. We All Have Animals Within

He had to be stealthy about this. Cunning and keep Sherlock from spotting out his plan. This had to be planned perfectly. With his hands injured, Sherlock has been ordered (by John) to remain in the flat and forego any possible cases that Lestrade sent to him. He was quite shocked that Sherlock actually took heed of his order, but that just made carrying out his plan all the more easier. Two cups of tea in the morning when he woke up. A glass of water with lunch. A glass of water before dinner. Taking good care of his body would lead to a speedier recovery. Around the early evening, John noted that his plan was taking effect. A subtle shift of the hips, Sherlock’s face pinching as he looked down at the book perched on his legs. Good.

Sherlock now had another reason to not want to use the loo. His hands being so painful, it made undoing his trousers a downright painful chore, and slipping himself out was awkward to manage. He’d proved that with his trip early this morning and the painful gasps and string of curses before he finally managed to get himself out, just in time for his intense stream to splash into the toilet. And now it seems he was in need again. Not that he would admit it. Not that he could hide it. But he was still adamant to take care of his own needs and not employ John for help. It was a pride thing. Not that John could blame him. He sure as hell wouldn’t want Sherlock holding his cock so he could piss because he was incapable.

“Anything you prefer for dinner?”

Sherlock grumbled a response, John rolling his eyes before rummaging through the fridge.

“Sandwiches it is.”

It was absolutely sinful the way that Sherlock wriggled his hips in his seat, trying to stave off the feeling of urgent need. There was nothing that could save you from the call of nature when it made itself known. John really wasn’t all that focused on making the sandwiches. In fact he was more like staring at the counter with meat and bread sitting in front of him, taking subtle glances to the sitting room when he heard movement, or heard a small sound come from Sherlock. His resolve was crumbling. He could feel a different sort of aching in his cock, aching for touch and stimulation. He closed his eyes, fingers touching at the crotch of his trousers to give a bit of pressure, and his cock jerked in response.

“Oh god…”

He had to take his chance now while he had it. Because if he didn’t take his chance now, Sherlock was going to wet himself before John could have his fun. That and if he didn’t do this now, he was going to bow out of his decision to indulge in his lustful desires. Now or never.

Sherlock was making an effort to get out of his chair when John entered the sitting room, and the man looked up to him with sheepishness, biting back a shameful moan.

“John could you…assist me up?”

John could feel how his face burned, his eyes focused on this man writhing before him, his belly burning with desire low within him. Oh he’d assist him alright. John leaned down, placing a hand on each of the arm rests, getting up close and personal with the desperate man.

“J-John? What are—“

“How could you be so unaware of what your little sessions of desperation do to me, huh? Are you so unaware of sexual situation and arousal and…base human desires? Are you, Sherlock Holmes, really so far above us all?”

Sherlock appeared to be baffled, before a flick of his eyes to the tight bulge in John’s jeans told him just what all this rambling on was about.

“I’ve watched you over the past few weeks Sherlock, every time you’ve gotten so terribly desperate, and I’ve been so very patient with you. I don’t want to desire you like this. You’re my flat mate. You’re a man. You’re not…I’m not…I’m not gay, but you make it awfully hard to deny these…feelings. You make a man want and desire things he shouldn’t Sherlock and I don’t think you realize that you do it, which makes it all the more dangerous.”

Sherlock pressed himself back in his chair, eyeing John with dazed eyes. This was very much unexpected, just as John had planned and knew it would be. Just as the feelings had been that crept up on him. Sherlock just created whirlwind after whirlwind of unexpected havoc in his life that uprooted the very foundations of his past beliefs to make him re-evaluate. No one has ever had such a profound effect on his life as this man has.

“I’ve made you drink quite a lot, haven’t I?”

John reached forward and placed his hand on Sherlock’s abdomen, and felt how it was distended with the strain of his bladder’s burden, rock hard and unforgiving. Sherlock took in a shaking breath, lashing a glare at John, but it faltered quickly under a surge of need that gripped him. He crossed his legs tightly, book falling to the floor (he’d forgotten it was still in his lap) as he fought against it, breathing ragged. Delicious. His belly tingled where John’s fingers made contact with his body, and he tried to wriggle away. No more pressure. Oh please no more.

“John, please, I really must—“

“Oh I know. Christ I know…look at you. Absolutely bursting aren’t you?”

John rubbed at his bladder, another hand reaching between the man’s crossed legs to rub against his groin. Sherlock lurched forward and rubbed himself into John’s hand, bucking his hips in wild desperation. Oh god how shameful. He hid his face with his arms, face red with embarrassment and lust. John could see Sherlock trying to shove down that beast within himself, but even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t ignore his body’s reactions. Not forever. He was just human after all.

“You leave your body in so much need, and I think you can hardly stand it anymore. It drives you mad, doesn’t it Sherlock? You don’t want to need, but you can’t ignore it, not forever. What do you need Sherlock?”

“I…I need…”

He thrusted against John’s hand, pressing tight as another wave of desperation ripped through him. He didn’t want to go. Not now. Not like this. Oh what a disgrace he’s become. If Mycroft could see him now, what would his brother say? But Mycroft wasn’t here. John was here, and he was going to take good care of Sherlock. He trusted John to take care of him.

“Budge up.”

Sherlock eyed John with much confusion. He wasn’t very keen on getting up when he wasn’t even sure he could get up without completely wetting himself. But John was there to the rescue. He helped Sherlock up, being as quick and fluid as he could (as not to jostle the desperate man), then he pulled Sherlock to straddle his lap, settling his hands on his hips to hold him there.

“John! What are you--?!”

“Just let it happen, Sherlock. For once in your life, just let someone take control for you. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock whined, tilting back his head as he rutted against John’s legs, wrists propped against his shoulders for support. John’s cock twitched and he could hardly keep his hands to himself. He wanted to explore every crevice of Sherlock’s desperate body, tweak at sensitive bits and play against heightened nerve endings. He wanted to hear the shameful noises Sherlock made in the height of pleasure. He wanted to learn what made the animal in the machine tick. 

“I must be depraved to be enjoying this so much. Look what you’ve done to me. Look at what you’ve reduced me to. I’m not sure I appreciate it…”

“And I’m not sure…I appreciate…this torment…”

Sherlock tensed, biting into his lip as John felt a surge of warmth spread across his lap. He was on the edge. It wouldn’t be much longer before he was pissing himself mad.

“John I can’t…I can’t wait much longer. I just can’t.”

“I know you can’t. Just a little longer. Hold it a little longer for me, got it?”

Sherlock gave John a piercing glare, but he nodded shortly and did was he was asked. John licked his lips, reaching between Sherlock’s legs and he rubbed against the man’s sensitive cock through his trousers.

“Does it ache? You’re so needy you’re practically bucking in my hand.”

He was. Sherlock was canting his hips forward, trying to urge John and hold him a little tighter. Oh just a little more. Just a little longer. He just wanted to hold on a little bit longer.

“It hurts John…please, I need…I…need…”

“I know, just one more moment.”

John pulled Sherlock a little further up on his lap, their groins pressed together, the taller man trembling as he tried to hold on to the very last bit of control he had left in him.

“John…JOHN!”

“I know Sherlock, it’s alright…you can go now…”

Sherlock couldn’t find any sense of mind to keep from urinating all over John’s lap. His need for relief filled his entire being, the throbbing of his bladder more important than his heartbeat. It was the single most important thing in the universe, and not relieving it wasn’t an option. The only option he had, was finally relieving his tired bladder. His control released, and his urine flooded forth, soaking through his trousers and into John’s. The smaller man could hardly contain the ecstasy that gripped him tightly and shook him from deep within. John arched his back and held Sherlock tightly as his cum spilled in his pants, body convulsing along with Sherlock’s before it stilled, both men equally exhausted, sticky with sweat. And then the embarrassment from both parties set in and left an unsettling silence in the air between them.

Sherlock pushed himself up, sitting straight in John’s lap as he eyed his flat mate with a cold mask, eyes blank. He was trying to remove himself from emotional response to sort out this situation, but he was still frazzled from his ordeal and he was finding it difficult to reboot his brain. What had John done? He’d stepped over that boundary and created an irreversible change in the tide of their relationship. From here Sherlock could only see two things happening; either things would build (and in order to do that he’d have to completely let John in, and that was an absolutely terrifying prospect he wasn’t sure he was ready for), or the steady foundation that they had built here at Baker Street would crumble until there was nothing left, and the wall between them was built so high it couldn’t be conquered. And losing John simply wasn’t something he was prepared to endure.

John pressed himself back in Sherlock’s chair, hands on the man’s hips as he looked up to him with a feeling of loss in his chest, tightening like a vice around his heart. He hadn’t considered the full ramifications of his actions, and now he had to live with the fact he acted on his lust, and put a rift between the two of them. Because that’s all it was; lust. Lust was a deadly sin for a reason. He’d put Sherlock in a situation he didn’t want to be in. Nothing ever pointed John towards believing Sherlock even had sexual desires or needs. Oh god why had he thought this was a good idea again? What was wrong with him?

“Sherlock…what you have to understand…I…”

“I was just a bit of fun. A whim of fancy. Am I wrong?”

John winced. The words stung but they were true. That’s all this was. Sick fun that he couldn’t help himself from seeking indulgence in. And the fact he’s done this was leaving him breathless, dizzy, heart palpitating harshly in his chest. He’d used Sherlock as an object of his desires and that was disgusting of him. How could John do this to him? There was no excuse that could pardon his actions. John just wanted to run away from this. He wanted to run from this whole hideous mess and pretend he hadn’t defiled his friend. Ignorance was bliss, right? Sherlock trusted him for Christ sake! And he’d abused that. This heinous act would haunt him for the rest of his life. He grit his teeth, fighting against the guilty tears that heated behind his lids. Then there were cold finger tips on his cheeks.

“John, look at me.”

John did as he was told with some reluctance, looking up at Sherlock who seemed to be contemplating the next move. He was carefully trying to sort out how he wanted to word what he needed to say. This was a make or break moment, and one wrong thing said could drive them over the cliff of no return. He took a deep breath. John commended Sherlock for digging deep and finding the bravery that John was lacking in this moment.

“You’re only human, so I can’t fault you for what you did, even if it was…beyond boundaries I had believed to have set early on in our living arrangement.”

John tried to shove Sherlock off of him and shut out his accusing words, but Sherlock persisted to keep him there, pressing his weight against the man seated below. He had to hear him out entirely.

“And I myself am human. I can’t say that I don’t get similar urges or needs. I’d rather it not happen but the human body is hard to keep control of and sometimes it…” Sherlock cleared his throat. He looked anxious and he didn’t seem pleased with how he was tumbling over his words like an illiterate buffoon. John rubbed a hand reassuringly over his back, his chest tight. He was in absolute suspense and it was driving him mad. Just spit it out already!

“And though I’m married to my work and I don’t always have time to accommodate for the needs of my transport there are times where I suppose I must indulge, and I’d rather…I would like to go to someone I trust with said needs. If I must indulge them. Sometimes it’s rather distracting and it can’t be helped.”

“So I’m a convenient outlet for your body’s sexual needs? Is that it?”

“NO! John I…”

It wasn’t convenience, and it wasn’t completely about the sexual need, and John saw that. It was something more, something so much bigger and so much more profound. It was something Sherlock was just starting to explore and peel out of the corners of his mind and he wasn’t confident enough to scream it out at the top of his lungs. And John wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it. 

“Hush…Sherlock, hey, I get it. I think I understand.”

He offered the man a nervous smile, and Sherlock looked down at him, and for the longest time all they did was look at each other, search into each other, and have a silent conversation that meant far more than any words they could let mumble from their lips. They have found something truly wonderful, something brilliant, and something so fragile they were almost afraid to edge forth into this new and terrifying territory. But both of them were at least certain of one new truth in their lives.

Sherlock absolutely needed John, and sentiment has buried deeply into his heart and made a home there, whether he would acknowledge it or not. He knew sentiment could damage, but he also saw in some cases, sentiment did have its advantages. And John wasn’t quite so sure, but it seemed that maybe these simple feelings of lust were something a bit more complex, and he was willing to take the time to sort out just what this was, if Sherlock was willing to open himself up to him.

Together, they could both explore, and they could both learn, and neither of them would have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> So here we have two prompts that I was requested in one story! (because I felt like I could fit them in nicely)  
> 1) Sherlock getting acid burns and being unable to get to the loo and being too shy to ask for help, so he ends up wetting himself  
> 2) John finally acting on the lustful feelings he's been having towards Sherlock
> 
> I sure hope the two people who made the requests are happy with the work. I know I'm not the most crafty writer in the world so I'm afraid of disappointing...I hope to improve with time and by expanding my willingness to tackle new challenges
> 
> I definitely plan on going from here to develop their relationship, and there will be plenty more wet fun for anyone interested! And next time, Sherlock may very well be a willing participant, which'll make things a lot more fun I think


End file.
